The Ultimate Blog Remix

So nice, I had to blog it twice!


The Hip-Hop Moses



“For many are called, few are chosen.” Matthew 22:14

So…
I was called a blasphemous sinner at best and an atheist at worst, the other day, which is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Well, not THE most ridiculous thing, but really REALLY close and:

So.
Not.
True.

Ok, I obviously uttered the most offensive blasphemous metaphor known to humankind regarding my larger than life-sized adult offspring, my description, not his. Expressing a mother’s pride I titled K.O. the Hip-Hop Moses and ruffled a few feathers. (Eh, what’s a few feathers? It’s not like I said he was the Messiah or something, which is what I was going to say but decided to demote him somewhat for the sake of avoiding argument *arms akimbo*. I mean, it’s not like he STARTED hip-hop! Maybe a more substantive genre of today’s hip-hop, but that’s a whole other blog…)

Anyway…after explaining my position the ruffled woman with steam rising from her ears, nose and throat, huffed that she would pray for my sins, for me and for my offspring and in that order, to which I thanked both she, her lack of metaphorical range and her God, in that order. (According to her, her bible said that our Gods were not one in the same. I don’t know what she was reading but clearly, she is a CONfused-ed *ding*…) I then walked away feeling a bit sad for the woman who complained that her son at 42 years of age had never flown the coop. A son that moved any number of women and children, his and otherwise, in and out of her house for some said number of years. So caught up in her particular righteousness she really wouldn’t see the forest for the trees, she was given a reprieve. I couldn't bare to bring her out of ignorance, for she was truly in bliss.

You, on the other hand, lucked up.

I shall explain to you, the masses, as I attempted to explain metaphorically to her. Agree if you choose, disagree if you like, respect regardless.

This is not fodder for thought, nor is it narcissistic conjecture, this is not opinion, nor is it fiction from which fantasy is made. It is a fact.

My son is, and has, a gift.

Born to individuals preoccupied with changing the world one seed at a time, people that planned his conception and prayed for his anticipated deliverance. Born to a father determined to erase the footsteps he would never allow his son to tread.



Kash Tha Ovadose was called to duty, at his first breath, born to a mother determined not to allow her son a permanent place on the statistical charts that were assumed to be his calling. It was known when he was born a 10lb. 2 oz king of the litter that he would guide many and follow few. He WOULD NOT JUST BE. She refused. He refused.

Sacrifices were made by any and all means necessary to the shock, horror and chagrin of family and friends. No one understood our reasons, our decisions, our minds. We had a plan and tired ourselves of translating and deciphering to the blind, to the deaf, to the dumb.

Let ‘em wonder.

When he devoured The Autobiography of Angela Y. Davis at the age of 11, I knew then that he would change the world. How he would do this and when he would do this was a bit of an enigma. Not long after that day, he formed his hip-hop group. He read everything he could get his hands on, asked a million questions and questioned every answer. Yes, he was a bit rough around the early edges, a strong determined piece of glistening hip-hop coal he was. He absorbed words from women like Angela and Assata and Nikki along with Sanyika* and Donald and other men that made it snow, fortifying the power of his pen that did bare fruit (Breaking News Volume I) after fruit (The Year of the Gods), (Operation Shut Down) after fruit (countless collaborations, solo tracks and unreleased material).

An unwavering core of coal pressured through wind and water and force and failure and confusion and knowledge and pain and learning and disappointment and growth and time into a rare black diamond solid and somewhat rough and rigid and cold and fresh and raw and uncut. In turn, his lyrics are biting and flesh-eating and in your face and uncomfortable and unrelenting and sticky and hurtful and valid and bold and harsh and grimy and compelling and hungry and acidic and beautiful and hard and reflective of Life and of the Hood. (Remixed from Black Philosophers/America the Beautiful)

“Cuz I’m of God, son of God, like Jesus is…” ~ Laugh At ‘Em

He is not dismayed by the destruction of hip-hop; he is decisive in his sowing. He has not fallen prey to all that glitters in the rap game. He isn’t caught up in the laffy-taffy hold of the general rap-seeking population. On the contrary, he seeks to untangle the nonsensical stronghold, apparently knotted in the belly of the Beast. He is an urban griot, speaking to the center of the struggle he is meant to reap. Given the gift to express the collective frustration of today’s young man using a mindset not equipped to follow fake-storytelling imposters. He knows who he is, his purpose in Life and how to show the world what that Hood Sh!t is really all about ;-)

In parting, I am truly blessed to call him “Son” and proud to say his soul is exactly that which it was destined to be. At his first breath, he was called to duty. He took control heeding his calling then as he continues to everyday in each letter, each lyric, each line speaking volumes in mere verses.

And.

If you know nothing of this U.G.C. movement, please know that whenever you hear him spew rhymes from his spirit, his soul too screams for the current state of hip-hop to “LET MY PEOPLE GO!”

(* Sanyika Shakur Monster Kody)

This is, for all intents and purposes...fortunate or un-, my Life ~ Aisis

You May Know the Name, But You Don't Know the Pain

PAIN

He doesn’t know why I am here
Or why even for he
And now
He even confuses me.

Do you know pain?

I know it well, as if, in fact, it is my name
Aware that even as others grew differently privileged
And prospered with a head start
That the young people, with less than zero hearts,
In Roxbury, silently screamed to me and
My answer was to remain
And create change.
Can you say the same?

Do you even know pain?

It is your daughter restless being held at night
Flickering bits of hope like droplets of light
When she can feel your Black Girl pain as if it were her own
'Cause it is.
No silver spoon, but a wide berth of a start
Because my sacrifice is hers to mold
She's already found herself
She understands the tribulations of
Black Girl "Gold"

Her life is hers, but is this life of mine now, really mine?
Was my path chosen in increments of time?
I belonged first to HIM, then to her, then to him
Again then, to them:
Those that lived within me and then those that grew from
The powerful synapse to me.

Do you know pain like I know pain?
Sat and had dinner with pain,
Built a life around pain, surrounded your heart with pain
Watched your so-called Leaders fail over and over again
Stood by grabbing at what was left of what your community gained?
Loved and held and watched it evaporate only to return acidic like rain?

Indifference Feigned
Hatred, numbness gained
Not the only but certainly the main
I am steadfastedly going insane
Had hoped that Yin could guide
A strong Yang
Only to be wrong, yet
Again
That is my pain.

Trusting this concoction of flour, egg and sugar cane
Knowing it isn't 1986 and in 2009 it can't be the same
His testament painting the picture that
This is all just a sick and twisted icing, and not cake,
Kind of a game.

Choices were made there is no one to blame
What you did and what I am doing is NOT the same
I chose motherhood over money and lovers and fame;
I did that alone, and then I changed what I was named.

Girl.
Daughter.
Sister.
Friend.
Mother.
Mentor.
Wife.
Woman.

And still I rise.

Do you even know pain?

Pain is crying in the dark at an inscribing that hurt
Still even late into the night, watering down the strength
of penning thoughts that support one's craft, one's life-long work.

Salvation?

Not with pen and paper, not with a recorder or by type
If in the morning the World's balance still isn’t right
I remain and only then will I write
And then right, all the wrongs, that bite.

Good Morning, Billie cried.
Heartache, still in site.



(Thanks to Talib Kweli for "Black Girl", Maya Angelou for "I rise" and Billie Holiday for "Good Morning, Heartache")

America the Beautiful

America the beautiful was popping at its seams. Suppressed in the 50’s, pubescent throughout the 60’s, she was becoming more estrogenically aggressive within the feminism movements and more testosterone prone at war with other countries. In all of America’s newfound freedom she learned the hard way that nothing in life is free, not even freedom (A Song for Assata) Common and that the promiscuousness throughout the late 60’s and early 70’s would cost her dearly. The 70’s delivered the first glimpse of Hip-Hop with the likes of The Last Poets and Gil Scott Heron, lovers of wisdom.

As a direct result of the abundance of drugs and free love, America the Beautiful paid dearly. America was heavy with child and by the end of that era…children born to happy parents are generally happy kids, born to angry parents...and so it goes. Most first-born children will agree to have been the test pilots of the family…the younger siblings seem to get away with murder, even when the murder is technically suicide.

The legal system and the war on drugs created an unbalanced way in which blacks were treated. Its policies for and against non-violent crimes and people of color flashed across news screens as well as window screens as the children of Hip-Hop watched in horror. Some used the energy of what they saw in a positive way (Rapper’s Delight) sugar hill gang, some internalized the anger (Ghost) Tupac, more reflected what they witnessed in the literary sense (She’s Alive) Andre 2000, 3000 and likely 4000, and still more created their own semblance of reality and gave it back to America the way they received it. Hard. Violent. Unrelenting. (You’re Nobody Til Somebody Kills You) Biggie Smalls.

Hip-Hop lives that anger daily. The ghetto is the ghetto is the ghetto, no matter the race, age or gender (a la Eminem). Young people learned to fend for themselves using language in a separate but equal manner. Their art imitating their lives.

Mentally.
Physically.
Financially.
Sexually.

Everyone has a story to tell.

Little girls are sugar and spice and everything nice but hell hath no fury like a woman scorn. What’s the in between? Feminism is a word made up centuries after black women called it life.

Lots of families hope for, in the birth order, boy(s) and then girl(s) so as to have an extra layer of protection for daughters. These daughters, however, grew up through families that were broken and unprotected, badgering and harsh, breaking down muscle after muscle day after day only to have them repaired and healed and broken, yet again. Adversity gives a woman strength (to Zion) Lauren Hill or it kills (anything written by Lil Kim). Only the strong survive. And the entire world is witnessing her screams.

Messages are hard and heavy from Hip-Hop artists like K.O (www.myspace.com/kashthaovadose). Messages that burst from hearts that have been broken and are an unwavering core of coal pressured through wind and water and force and failure and confusion and knowledge and pain and learning and disappointment and growth and time into a rare black diamond solid and somewhat rough and rigid and cold and fresh and raw and uncut. In turn lyrics are biting and flesh-eating and in your face and uncomfortable and unrelenting and sticky and hurtful and valid and bold and harsh and grimy and compelling and hungry and acidic and beautiful and hard and reflective of their life in their neighborhood.

Their lives have been pressured through politics, policies and the police. They’ve come out of the womb of the country, swinging bats and throwing bottles, fighting the powers that be, from birth. Some fight fairly and consciously playing by the rules, some fight dirty and underhandedly breaking all the rules, but make no mistake they are all fighting for their right to speak and be heard, refusing to live in the cave:

“My mother’s first born, feeling like I’m worthless, attitude f*^ked up cause I don’t know my purpose. F*^k every body is what I must be on, by myself hoping God don’t judge me wrong. I had to adapt to my circumstances growing up in the ‘hood ain’t no perfect chances. You say it ain’t right. I say it ain’t life and you can’t judge me cause, we don’t live the same life. Every day I hope I make it rich cause I don’t know how much longer I can take this sh!t.” (Kash Tha Ovadose)

Unfortunately, the mainstream Rap Artists (i.e. Three Six Mafia, Nelly), have become the norm when in fact they are the very stereotypical ignoramuses that Rap music sought to exonerate. The intermingling of the good and the bad is quite incestuous. It’s a strange cycle of sorts. When the children of Hip-Hop watched the American Dream in her selfishness, they became sullen and secretive with the open-door policy for “others” entering the Hip-Hop Nation. This music is held close to hearts remembering the shadowed stories told by parents, grand and great grand, of the coming together of musicians and the loss of control over the foundations of Rock & Roll, a la Chuck Berry and Little Richard and Jazz, a la Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday.

Strange Fruit, indeed.

No, it was decided that this rap thing would take a decidedly different route, if not financially then certainly physically. And so the slow simmering began and when the grasp was held firmly it over-flowed and the hot liquid has burned the world.
The treatment of some blacks in this country is likened to the children that America the Beautiful tried to keep in the attic, the sheep of the family that has become the elephant in the room.

True Hip-Hop artists are not dismayed by the media portrayal of young men of color or by the destruction of hip-hop; he is decisive in his sowing. He has not fallen prey to all that glitters in the rap game. He isn’t caught up in the misogynistic hold of the general rap-seeking population. On the contrary, he seeks to untangle the nonsensical stronghold, apparently knotted in the belly of the Beast. He has seen in his own mind’s eye the fall of the fools that play like puppets being led by Gippetto, a puppet master. He is an urban griot, speaking to the center of the struggle he is meant to reap. Given the gift to express the collective frustration of today’s young man using a mindset not equipped to follow fake-storytelling imposters. A true Hip-Hop artist is a philosopher explaining his answer to “why” in his particular form. The Allegory of the Cave mentality is reflected in today’s media with rap videos, the evening news and the daily newspapers. White America seems to fear what it is that they do not understand.

America swallowed its honesty, its assurance of 40 acres and a mule and its so-called civil rights equality. Therefore, its promises of success have failed horribly. America fed its black youth empty promises and broken unreachable dreams.
The Hip-Hop Nation as the child in utero created an upset stomach and America isn’t feeling so well any more. Rap music, in all of its infinite possibilities to produce change in the black community, is simply at the moment, the result of an aggravated spewing nation. Rap music is simply the contents of an upset stomach.

The promise of a great education within the free public school systems, the endless possibilities of the milk-and-the-honey-and-2.4 kids-living-within-the-grassy-plains-of-the-white-picket-fence-American-dream didn’t agree with their tummies; the lies were too much to swallow and have become indigestible. Hip-Hop is the child in utero. Rap music is simply the result of America’s vomit.

“At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round…he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows…” (Plato) America in her infinite wisdom is seeing only the shadows, turn your heads toward the sun and behold not the shadows but the truth of this people.

Stop feeding the nation garbage and they will stop spewing the violence.

No More Porcelain Dolls

I am a fragile porcelain doll sitting on the top shelf.
I bruise easily. I have the marks to show.
I sit on this top shelf waiting for him to return.
I miss that little boy who put me up here.
If I spoke who would hear?
I am not suffered a touch, I am not shown love.
I miss that little boy who put me up here.
I have seen other dolls
None of them porcelain.
I have always been above them
Never equal, never below.
I can see the love for the rag doll below me
I hear her cries but I do not feel her pain.
Her pain is not my pain, for me there was no choice.
I miss that little boy who put me up here.
He placed me up here and then he left.
I see a strange man with no soul.
What has he done with the little boy who put me up here?
I see him with those dolls;
I see him but he does not see me
The man with no soul hurts so much and yet continues…To hurt so many.
I see the man with no soul
He is coming for me
I am waiting for the little boy who put me up here!
Stop.
I speak for the very first time.
And then I bruise easily because he wants to hold, tightly, onto me.
I feel the tears well up in my eyes
The tears have spilled onto my hard creased face
I feel the wetness on my cheeks I taste the saltiness on my lips.
I close my eyes so as not to see what he has done to me.
But only to think of what he’s done to the others.
I feel the crack spider my entire body.
I open my eyes only to see the broken lines on my brown porcelain.
And now I can clearly see where my heart used to be.
I want the tears to drip searing his skin,
but the cracks in my face have swallowed all of them.
In my disarray, I look to my left and I look beneath me.
He is beneath me but he is above the rag doll
I see his eyes for the very first time.
I see the little boy who put me up here.
I waited: I left for no other soul.
Isn’t that the little boy who put me up here?

I see his eyes inside the man with no soul
Are you the little boy that put me up here?
He tearfully replied: You and you alone see him.
His eyes turned down unable to face mine
It is time that I climb off of this shelf.
I must move cautiously while moving away
I am already bruised and battered
My brown porcelain cannot stand another blow
The man with no soul does not notice
But the rag doll does.
I mustn’t run, I must walk strong, it must be steady
So as not to miss the way he is letting me go,
Right underneath her nose.
I waited for the little boy that put me up there
And I cautiously descended that shelf.
He is still beneath me and she is still beneath him.
They are both where they belong.
My journey has begun.

When Keeping it Real is Just Hysterical...

So, Donna and I decided, after a long week of working our pretty little fingers to the bone, it was high time to act like “Stella” and “get our groove back”.  What better way to do that than to “Drop it like it’s HOT!” - right?  Well, either I am another breed of Woman or something was very, very wrong with our bar hopping the other night!  I mean, good grief, does anyone dance anymore? 

The DJ did his thing, he mixed it up – a little hip-hop, a little old school, a little southern twang, a little reggae, I’m sayin’ the sounds were on point.  Mic check.  Aiiight! 

The bartenders were attentive and the drinks packed a punch (well strength is relative, Sambuca is strong whether you drink it straight or on the rocks…). 

The brothahs, although not out in droves, were in attendance and looking rather dashing, I might add.  In keeping with the whole vibe here, the ladies were out in droves, and were just dying for a little bit of attention from the guys.  Belly rings and cleavage check.   Aiiight!

Aiiight, so what was the problem then?  One minute everyone was standing around the room, boys on one side and girls on the other. Suddenly, ladies were everywhere, dropping it hotly, every which-a-way!  Not only was the dance floor peppered with scantily clad females but the carpet was also full of dancing divas.

What’s wrong with this picture?  Well, the only folks dancing were the females!  What happened to the guys popping their collars, out for the hunt?  What happened to gals stirring their milkshakes, hoping to get caught?  Males were not leading and the females were certainly not following. I did ask a friend if he wanted to dance, because that’s just me.  He eyed the women dancing in front of us and replied, “Looks like you don’t need us to dance.” 

So, I said to myself, “Self,” (*wink*) “What’s really going on?  Do men feel that because we as women would rather ‘want’ them than ‘need’ them that it changes our roles to the point where asking to dance, at a club, no less, is off limits?  Are women that cut throat?”  Could be.  We are, as a species, the most viscous.  But why is that?  Although I do not have enough space to get deep into this, I do feel that my 2¢ here may help in the “dance floor category” for the coming weeks anyway:

Ladies first, according to some higher power:

I am by no means insinuating that we must dance with any and everyone who makes a B-line for us, every single club night.  However, if you happen to be feverishly dancing in place (insert Beyonce's anything dance here), looking as if you are about to break someone or something off, showing us all what you are working with, there’s no need to shoot a guy down when he tries to “holla” at you. 

How about being thankful that someone noticed your “jiggy” and wanted to get with it.

We all know the “Can I buy you a drink.” line, right?  We all know that he finds you interesting in some sort of fashion and wants to continue the conversation further than that, right?  So, having agreed on the previous thoughts, would you agree not to accept the drink if you don’t expect him to follow you all around the place?  I mean, let’s use some common sense for just a second.  Do you really think that he is buying this drink because he wants to just watch you inhale his $8.50 while dancing with a person who could be so bothered with your thirsty arse?  Come on; let’s keep it real!

If you see a guy and you wanna holla – Do you!  Take the initiative; you may like the results.  Do what I have done – but ONLY if you are interested in further conversation.  (Shhh...It’s a secret, just between you and me.)  Buy him a drink.  Trust me on this one.

Gentlemen, for you, I saved the best for last:

First of all, we do appreciate you.  Having said that, let me say this – please come out to play with your “A” game (*wink*). You must be this tall to ride this ride…Okay, some (clearing throat) ladies, will settle for any game at all.  Those of us who are always on our “A” game have higher expectations.  The “A” gamers, male and female, can spot each other, instantly.  The laid back, whatever-ish (is that a word?) nonchalant thought is not the most appealing.  When you don’t look interested, we think you are not interested.  We really do follow your lead.

As women we must be able to look up to you. I can stand eye to eye with you and still look up to you, ya feel me?

Oh and wherever you bit those pick-up lines. please spit them out, walk away and let them die where they land.  We listen to the same music that you do, so when you quote some line, trying desperately to gain cool points, we think it’s unbecoming of a gentleman (translation – corny). So cut it out.  When I overheard a strapping young man get turned down the other night, “Mami, can you back that thang up for me?” I secretly wished that I had written this little info a little earlier.  You have to love a man that goes for the gusto though, right?

On the other hand, I must throw a little jab toward the guy that grabbed my arm as I stood, stood not danced, with full drink in hand and told me that we were dancing.  I declined, asking if he would like to dance on the next song, I mean, I had a full shot of Sambuca in hand and I did want to dance!   This guy says to me, “If you don’t dance with me, then I’m going to ask your girlfriend.” Oooh, he was mad at me!

“Okaaaay… try your luck, I’m the nice one, she’s the evil twin.” I said shaking my head, holding in my laughter, and waiting for the other shoe to drop as he approached Donna.  (“If your girl starts acting up then you take her friend”…but what kind of friend would go?)

Well needless to say, from the barrage of daggered non-verbal communication from my BFF, he didn’t dance, didn’t walk with chest out, didn’t sort of…exist afterwards.  Not then and not at all that night.

But I DID warn him ;-)

I hope this little bit of info gets more people onto the dance floor.  Ok, let me keep it real.  Someone better ask me to dance this weekend or I may have to get a little vicious myself!

This is, for all intents and purposes, fortunate or un...my Life.

Aisis

Yes, we did...

What more can I really say? We did infact vote in droves! This is one of the most proud moments in Our history. This picture was snapped pre-election day, but I had to include it as it speaks volumes to this family.


I had planned on writing a blog a while ago speaking to the age old cliche: Behind every great man is a great woman... and decided against it. It would have only ended in blood (snicker) as my views do not reflect MOST views.


In my humble opinion, behind every great man are many men to follow. His mate, if she too is great, walks with him. As I am certain, this is the way in which he decides. What man wants a woman walking behind him where he cannot depend on her or in front of him where she is forced to question him.


Walk with him, without burdening, and together...together, they did and only Together as a generation, a community, a people, will we.

Well done.

Seven years since 9-11/Four more years of the same?

Point #1. Republicans continue to point out in regard to the 9-11 horrific tragedy - "We've kept you safe since then..." this video seeks to answer the question "Doesn't 'then' count"?

Point #2. The commentator boldly interrogates McCain by asking him, straightforward and unflinchingly: Are you aiding and abetting Osama bin Laden?

Point #3. When is enough of the same old politics, finally enough?